Hermione Rouge
by some-77-kid
Summary: Like french you know?... Its really HGRW but.. lets say she dabbles. The insanity of her life is just too much. So like any normal person she takes her huge fortune and runs away! to france. cool huh? yes I thought so. Just one chapter so be kind. T safe


I own nothing... or maybe everything... no.. still nothing.

Hermione Rouge

Her couch dragged her in that night. While the windows bathed in the summer rain, she sat with her new "light read" _1001 Magical Herbs and Their Uses_. The comfort of her very own couch was just enough to keep her up at this ungodly hour. Just having graduated Hogwarts, Hermione embraced the idea of having her own apartment by staying up late, and living it up… well… as much as is expected. She _occasionally _went out with her friends, had a few drinks, even more laughs, and _sporadically_ splurged on a new pair of shoes, Hermione was nearly surprised at herself at how being independent actually didn't change her much at all. Bookworm, bushy-haired, Hermione was still Hermione. And she had no desire really to change. Life was good as it was. That was until a very loud cracking noise occurred and a dripping wet figure bumped its way into the house.

"PETRIFICUS TOTALUS!" She shouted spinning, her wand quickly in her hand. There was a moment of silence broken by a thud. Quickly she checked the intruder, "Ron? Ronald Weasly!"

After another quick flick of the wand, Ronald Weasly was standing, dried, and furious, "What was tha' for huh? A boyfriend can't visit his girl and not be whipped about like some Dominatrix plaything! What is with you? I….I.." Ron quickly tried to brush off some undefined subject matter off his clothes. It was that stare. That 'I-don't-take-that-especially-from-you' stare that made him feel guilty about whatever he was doing.

"Your _girl_ Ronald?" A cocked eyebrow and his full first name, that was dangerous, "First off how was I supposed to know it was you? No phone call, No owl? What if you were some renegade Death Eater come to avenge Voldemort's death? And I am NOT dominatrix in ANY sense of the word! We may be together now but I still need my space, we've talked about this! You can't just come over whenever you like because I am your _girl."_ She treated the word like it was hair at the bottom of the drain, "Just because I am not your permanent _snogging_ buddy like some other previous girlfriend we both know who just happens to be _sleeping_ next door!" She got very hushed at this last part. Though her walls were silenced by the Muffilatio charm she still felt so exposed at the thought of her being able to hear what was going on behind these walls, "Ronald _that_ is why I hit you with this charm and _that_ is why I am sending you out tonight!" She pointed her finger to the door.

"But 'Mione I-"

"Out!"

Ron slumped out the door, shoulders bent dragging feet, the look of a person who had been fighting a 17-year war and just lost. Hermione knew she couldn't stay mad at him long, and might even invite him back again later tonight, for some food and apologies, but he made her absolutely infuriated at his constant need, and clingy-ness. Though she wouldn't tell anyone, in school, she would dream at night about a very grown up Ron loving her, as they would spend endless hours talking about intelligent things. But never did she think, that maybe he was far more 'devoted' than she could ever think a man to be. For example, a rose, may be a romantic gesture but not one-dozen every week. She was looking at her kitchen… filled to the brim with roses. White, red, pink, enchanted ones that when every time you sniffed, it would say 'I love you' in his voice. Or some that sang every day at 12:05. Or even some that changed color constantly and gave off bright sparks every day when she came home. It was all too much. She felt cluttered by his love. Like it was an all too messy painting, splattered across a far too large canvas, exploding, changing, morphing, screaming for attention that he had missed for 17 years. She had enough chocolate to last her a lifetime and a half. She didn't want nor need of an all-new Chuddly Cannons signed broomstick. And she never wanted to see one more cherub-bearing owl again. The two of them had been together for around six months since then and her life had been in overdrive.

After the final defeat of Voldemort, Hermione learned to keep her window open, because owls were pouring in from around the world thanking the three of them on their final overthrow of 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named'. That first week at the Burrow was a nightmare. Hooting day and night, letters by the thousands, and dung up to her eyeballs, Hermione didn't know how to handle it. Eventually Mr.Weasly got the bright idea of placing a shielding charm over their homes, though some still managed to get through. And reporters, all the reporters, nearly every paper in the world wanted their own private story of their adventures. All screeching at the proximity of the shields, some in different languages, banging and charming their way in. It wasn't until they set up a formal press conference, did they actually get some answered. And it was only some. After six hours they were all screaming for more.

It was a whirlwind that finally wound down. Harry was getting the first installment of his biography published by some Rowling woman. Ron was finally done being in the spot for once, and Hermione was finally left alone. After all the covers for Witch Weekly, Mage Monthly, Herbs Hourly, the seventeen page spread over Teen Witch Weekly about how such a small town, smart girl, assisted in defeating the greatest dark wizard of all time. She was tuckered out. And just about ready to fall back into obscurity, to lead a normal life, while Ronald wasn't nearly satisfied.

This had to stop.

As the clouds saturate the ground outside, she pondered her options. She might have gone exploring to find her parents, though they were already found, and prouder of her daughter than ever. She might never leave her apartment again, seeing as how every time she actually did go out, wizarding paparazzi would be at her side, blinding her with millions of pictures.

Lightning struck.

That was at least in England.

Thunder rumbled about throughout her kitchen.

What's to say that somewhere else, she wouldn't be noticed at all. Like another country…

Getting up out of her chair she moved to the window. The downpour had tapered into a light smattering of drops. Some still feebly tapping against the window, twinkling with the early suns rays.

"Tomorrow." She said to no one in particular. And made her way to her warm and loving bed.

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